


All I Want for Christmas

by RussianWitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't copy to another site, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: Despite assumptions to the contrary, Q is spending Christmas alone...





	All I Want for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flantastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flantastic/gifts).



> not beta'd

Alan nuzzles at his ear, his whiskers tickling Q's cheek and Q inexplicably remembers a lazy forming in the middle of the summer, of waking up to a whiskered cheek dragging against his jaw and slow, sweet kisses that lead to Q being late for work and James striding around all day like the cat who got the cream.

Q doesn't want to think about the summer.

Hell, he doesn't want to think about three weeks ago.

Doesn't even want to think about the start of the week when a crisis broke out across the world and James had volunteered to go solve it. He'd volunteered with Christmas only days away, Christmas he'd promised to spend with Q.

Implied he'd be spending with Q.

Or possibly hadn't been planning on even discussing with Q at all.

Christmas had never been something Q had paid a lot of attention to in the past. His family's traditions for the season had revolved around take-out and movies on the telly. His own, around using the additional free time to finish up personal projects he wasn't getting around to during the school year and later, during regular working hours.

The odd Christmas eve he'd spent in company, had been while accompanying one boyfriend or another to their family gatherings and feeling like the odd man out among the familial cheer. Those brief encounters had left him with a fantasy of having a family Christmas of his own, just him and his significant other curling up under a cat-proofed Christmas tree sharing hot chocolate and cookies or something equally ridiculous.

In his fantasies, the significant other never had a face, the evening no particular theme—until recently, and that's the reason he's now well and truly fucked.  
For the first time this year, he had finally given said fantasy a face—knowing he shouldn't, but James had been there for months and Q's resolve to not make more out of their friendship than there was had weakened.

Pushing the cat away, Q rolls over pressing his forehead to the ice vodka bottle he's unearthed from the freezer.

Before James, he'd never had vodka in the house, but James liked it, and bottles started appearing in Q's freezer. The last one had been barely broken in, brought the day before James left, the last bit of James left behind under Q's roof.

His forehead now cool, he takes a gulp shivering as the vicious liquid slides down his throat and settle like an ice-cube in his gut. Vodka has never been to his taste, but it's very efficient in getting someone drunk off their ass, and Q very much likes efficiency.

Efficiency is what got him into this mess.

After Skyfall, putting the grounded 00-agent who haunted his bunker to work had seemed to top of efficiency. It had taken some weeks for M to sort out the administrative and public relations mess the whole incident had left in its wake, leaving them on pins and needles in the meantime.  
Or, as much on "pins and needles" as 00-agents and people who controlled satellites and regularly worked with explosives were capable of.

It was then that Q saw another side to the dour, grim agent he'd met at the National Gallery. James had charmed his minions, helping with the testing of various software and gadgets with utter professionalism. That he was at the same time avoiding, in Moneypenny's words "a heap of paperwork" waiting for him in the small office he shared with several of his fellow agents between missions, that wasn't any of Q's business.

Lunches in the MI6 cafeteria had turned into suppers in student pubs and expensive restaurants, depending on who was buying, until Q realised they were what might be considered friends.  
The benefits were excellent too.

He curses to himself refusing to remember how nice James felt on top of him, moving inside of him, or the way he laughed with his eyes while his mouth was occupied by Q's cock.

He takes another gulp of vodka and looks up at the lights blinking their names in Morse Code feeling like an idiot. The tree seems to glow against the darkness of the room and Q curls deeper in his blanket his whole body aching for a hug, for familiar arms around him and solid chest against his back.

Spock falling on him startles Q awake to the tree still glowing above him and his limbs feeling like lead, and the spectre of James Bond hovering over him.

"Fuck!" He curses to himself, pushing the cat off his chest, "I haven't drunk enough to hallucinate, yet!"

The spectre raises a brow, and Q is tempted to throw the bottle at him, except that there is still Vodka in there and he feels far too sober still, despite the hallucination.

"Shut up!" He mutters at the apparition as he opens his mouth, "I don't want to hear how pathetic I am."

The not-Bond nods, crouching where he stood, his head cocked reminding Q of the cats at their most judgmental.

“I’m a big lad—and he started it anyway! You—whatever! Staying over, feeding the cats, buying eggs for fuck’s sake! You don’t do that when you’re just shagging!” He takes another drink, “then take off for fucking Christmas eve without a word!”

The apparition grimaces, moving closer hovering just out of arms or legs reach frowning down at him in judgement.

“I shouldn’t have assumed, I know!” Q tells it, “but I wanted—why the fuck did I have to start wanting with you of all people?!” He demands, the world spinning as he sits up properly and almost falls into the tree—only to be caught at the last second in a familiar pair of arms.

He gaps up at his hallucination, which is suddenly far too close, too warm and alive pulling him in against the familiar chest.

“I assumed you would be otherwise occupied,” James tells him cupping Q’s face.

“Why the fuck are you here, then?” Q snaps, confused by the look on James’ face.

“Keeping the cats' company,” James tells him, “It’s Christmas after all, they might get lonely,” while settling next to Q in the nest of blankets each move slow and calculated to give Q time to object.  
He would too if James’ chest wasn’t so comfortable, and warm and _there_.

Still in one of his work suits, slightly wrinkled from travel, a little tired-looking but there.

Q leans in to kiss him and scrapes his lips raw on a bewhiskered chin.

“I—I’m never ‘otherwise occupied’,” Q sighs, throwing a leg over James’ thighs and whining when the bottle he turns out to be still holding is tugged out of his grasp. He feels James’ throat move against his cheek as the man finishes the bottle in one swing.

“You have friends, and family—,” James objects.

“Friends who grow more distant by the year because I can’t tell them what I actually do,” Q interrupts, “and family—,” he isn’t a coward, just cautious weighing all possibilities against each other, choosing the best possible odds, “family is complicated, the cats and you are more of a family at this point than they ever were.” He blurts out, expecting a laugh, only for James to go still instead.  
Q expects to be let go then, for James to untangle himself, get up, maybe apologise for the misunderstanding, say something comforting and glib before walking out. He doesn’t expect the arms around him to tighten to bruising strength, or James’ mouth on his claiming and rough, demanding like he hasn’t been up till then.

It’s not a friendly kiss, or casual, and maybe not even all that good, but it is possessive and claiming and promising a lot of things Q had been afraid to ask for.

“I won’t always be able to be here,” James says, his lips tickling at Q’s temple.

“That—,” Q says, reaching over to pet the cats who’ve decided to join them, “isn’t the point.” He winces as Alan stomps over his kidney to make himself comfortable on his back. “It’s that you want to be.”


End file.
